Oh joy. Death message?
Good lad.
Dr McDonald wants access to the crime scene.
Meh. The Smurf Patrol have finished with it, so why not? Make sure she comes up with something useful though.
Do my best. He hung up.
The Shopper-Hopper gave its diesel roar and pulled into the traffic.
Franklin did another lap, jabbing away like she was trying to stab and bludgeon someone all at the same time.
With any luck shed get it out of her system and thered be none left to batter him with.
But just in case...
Callum nipped back into the centre and grabbed a couple of fancy pieces and two takeaway teas from the Costa by the lifts. Hunched his shoulders and hurried through the doors, into the rain.
By the time he reached the pool car, she was behind the wheel again, dripping and glowering.
So much for getting it out of her system.
He slipped into the passenger seat and held out his peace offering. Here. Tea, milk no sugar, and... Tada! One paper bag. Got a billionaires shortbread and a rocky-road brownie. You choose.
The frown didnt shift. Whats billionaires shortbread?
Like a millionaires, but theres bits of broken-up Crunchie in there too.
She went for the shortbread, chewing with her shoulders dipped as the rain thumped down on the car roof. Not that its any of your business, but Mark is my partner.
Poor sod. Living with Franklin must be like trying to cross a minefield on a pogo stick every day. Blindfold. While sadists threw burning squirrels at you.
Mark was probably up for a medal. Or beatification.
Callum had a bite of brownie, sickeningly sweet, and washed it down with hot tea.
Franklin cracked a chunk off her shortbread. His works hosting a dinner dance for charity Friday night, and apparently Im being unreasonable because I cant tell him if Ill be there or not. Doesnt matter that Im working a mass murder, no, the important thing is making him look good in front of his bosses.
Actually, a mass murder is when you kill four or more people in the same location without much of a gap between... He cleared his throat. Sorry.
Youre all the bloody same, arent you?
Sadly. A slurp of tea. Whats he do, this Mark of yours?
Investment banking.
And all sympathy for the guy died right there.
She finished her shortbread. Its not my fault I got transferred to Oldcastle, is it? I mean, its not like I can commute here from Edinburgh. Id have to get the five-thirty train every morning and I still wouldnt be here in time for a seven oclock start.
Callum balanced his tea on the dashboard and pulled out his notebook. Flicked through it. Mother wants us to drop in on Ben Harringtons parents and give them the bad news. Here we go: sixteen Brookmyre Crescent, Blackwall Hill. About five minutes away.
And I am not giving up my career, just to play house in a flat in Portobello. She bared her teeth, nearly as white as the dental receptionists only with bits of chocolate stuck between them.
I can drive, if you like?
Why do men have to be such selfish scumbags?
A young mother slouched past the car, face slumped in permanent disappointment, pushing a buggy with a screaming toddler in it. Rain trickled from the straggly ends of her lank hair.
Callum had another bite of brownie. Kept his mouth shut.
Franklin sighed. Threw back the last of her tea. Then started the car. All I ever wanted to be was a police officer. Im not resigning. Wouldnt give Superintendent Neil Sodding Sexual-Harassment Lambert the satisfaction.
OK, at least this was safer ground than interfering in her relationship. So go to Professional Standards, make a formal complaint.
I did. Why do you think they transferred me? She took them out of the car park. Which way?
Left, then right onto McAskill Road.
And yes, I shouldnt have hit him. I know. The scowl deepened. Dirty, slimy, sleazy little prick got his complaint in first. Who are they going to believe, a black woman PC, or a white middle-aged male superintendent? Because you can bet its not the woman.
A lot of the shops around the centre had To Let signs in the window, one advertising a closing down sale. One had its frontage all boarded up and a notice thanking customers for sodding off to Amazon instead of buying their books in a real bookshop.
Thats McAskill Road: take a right.
She did. Its never the woman.
The road dipped below a railway bridge, the inside scrawled with graffiti tags. A couple of older men huddled in a recess between the supports, sharing a cigarette and a litre bottle of supermarket blended whisky.
North of the line, Blackwall Hill broke out in coiled housing developments, little cul-de-sacs, and sweeping curved streets.
Take Caldwell. Callum pointed at the junction up ahead, past the pedestrian crossing. You want to deliver the death message?
Why, because Im a woman?
On second thoughts, maybe a bit of compassion is in order. Ill do it. You can make the tea. He held up a hand. And before you start, its got nothing to do with being a woman. You either deliver the death message and sit with them while they grieve, or you make the tea. One or the other. Turn right here.
That took them onto a wide road with bungalows on either side, that bowed away to the left following the contours of the hill.
Franklin pursed her lips. Fine. You make the tea.
You sure?
Positive.
It was a weird world when someone thought making four cups of tea was worse than telling a parent that their only child had been murdered. Brookmyre Crescent. Thats us right there.
She slowed for the junction, taking them into a dead-end road that cupped twenty or thirty houses in its coiled embrace. Some semidetached, some standing on their own. Most had been extended up into their attics, a few with converted garages, lots of lock-block driveways, wheelie bins arrayed on the pavements like guardsmen ready for inspection.
Number sixteen: the one with the dark-blue door and hideous garden ornaments.
Franklin parked outside it as the rain faded to a misty drizzle.
Right, the mothers name is Christine, father is Tony. No brothers or sisters.
She nodded. Christine. Tony. Then undid her seatbelt. Lets do this.
Callum followed her out into the damp afternoon gloom.
Number 16 was on the downhill side: a detached bungalow conversion with a room above the garage and dormer windows on the upper floor. Ivy growing up the wall around the door. A wooden wishing well sat in the middle of a gravel lawn, surrounded by gnomes in various rustic poses, and angry tufts of pampas grass.
Classy.
The gap between the house and next doors leylandii hedge was like a little picture postcard, looking down Blackwall Hill, across the river, and up to Castle Hill on the other side. A shaft of sunlight had made it through the heavy lid of slate-coloured cloud, turning the castle and its granite perch a warm shade of honeyed gold, all rendered in soft-focus by the drizzle.
Probably worth a fortune with a view like that.
Franklin leaned on the bell. Bet theyre not even in.
Look, if youd rather do the teas than deliver the death message, thats OK.
No, you idiot. Theres no car in the driveway. Family living somewhere like this? Theyve got more than one car.
Maybe its in the garage?
She tried the bell again. Youve never had a garage, have you? Its not for keeping your car in, its for storing all the crap you moved out of the last house and havent taken out of the boxes six years later.
No answer from inside.
You might be right. He checked his watch 15:40. Better give it another ten minutes, though. Just to be safe.
Franklin hunched her shoulders and turned her back on the drizzle. Im not standing here, in the rain, for ten minutes.
So we wait in the car. At least itll be His phone burst into life, belting out its anonymous ringtone. Hello?
Is that DC MacGregor, I hope so, this is the number he wrote on his business card and I mean he should know what his own mobile number is shouldnt he, mind you I suppose most people dont do they, after all, they dont phone themselves, so why would they remember it? All done in a single breath.
Dr McDonald. What can I do for you? He followed Franklin back down the driveway.
Psilocybe semilanceata.
OK...
Whats that when its at home?
Liberty Cap mushrooms, AKA: magic mushrooms, AKA: shroooooms. Were halfway through Benjamin Harringtons post mortem and his stomachs full of them, well, not full-full, but theres quite a lot of them and theyve not dissolved all that much because he mustve died not long after taking them, which isnt surprising because its still a lot of mushrooms to take in one go, but theres heaps of herbs and things in there as well, only theyre going to take a lot longer to identify than the mushrooms, because magic mushrooms always look like magic mushrooms, dont they?
Callum settled into the passenger seat. Clunked the door shut. Did he eat enough to kill him?
I dont think you can overdose on magic mushrooms, theyve got an emetic effect, so youre more likely to vomit them up if you take too many, well, I suppose you could choke on your own sick, but thats not actually overdosing, is it? Anyway, theyre running toxicology on the tissue samples from the two mummies to see if theyve got any psilocybin in them, did you know theyve got their own mass spectrometer here, its amazing, Ive never seen a mortuary with these kinds of facilities before, but Dr Jenkins says they were spending so much money sending samples away for testing that it made a lot more sense getting
Doctor! A bit rude, but at least it stopped her. Theres a bong in the flat where the body was found the shrooms might be Bens. He takes too many, dies, Glen and Brett are too stoned to help so they panic and board him up in the bathroom then do a runner.
Franklin frowned across the car at him, mouthing the word, What?
Thats why theyre rushing through the tox screen on the mummies, if theres psilocybin in the tissue samples, then weve got a link, and thats exciting, but Id still like to see the flat if I can, can I?
Yeah. Its fine, SOCOs have finished with it anyway.
OK, Ill see you there, whens good, is now good?
Erm... No. Weve got to tell Ben Harringtons parents that hes dead. And youre in the middle of a post mortem, remember?